Deja Poop: Are you the Andrew Ridgeley parent?

Just a reminder that we’re mostly in reruns this week (everything is explained here), although Mike and Regan have since sent me posts that have run/will run this week. This post originally ran on Nov. 8, 2008. I remember my wife disputed the 60-40 estimate at the time — one of the few times she seemed visibly angry about something I wrote on the blog. Feel free to comment now if you didn’t in 2008. -Peter

bbc.co.uk

When life gets rough, I’m not your man.

If you were to rig a bunch of cameras around our house 24/7, and turn it into a reality show, you would probably conclude that my wife and I share parental duties pretty close to 50-50. Household duties are probably closer to 60-40 in her favor (is she reading this? … maybe 65-35 …) but I make up ground with occasional yard work, small home repair projects and games that involve my older son jumping off furniture and jabbing his boney knees onto my prone body.

When things get really crazy and chaotic, though, I’m definitely not the one running the show. I’m the Andrew Ridgeley parent.

I was reminded of this the other night when my sons both simultaneously got the flu. Somewhere between the polls closing in California and John McCain’s concession speech, my older son began throwing up — starting with a projectile vomit stream that managed to hit our rug, hardwood floors and every item of outerwear that my wife had on at the time. Then the little one started to get sick …

While I think I’m reasonably assertive when it comes to most day-to-day parenting issues, my immediate response during this crisis was to freeze and wait to be told what to do. I actually said the words “What should I do?” and remember being hugely relieved when she didn’t say “I don’t know.” (“Get one of the big towels from the closet” was the response, if I remember correctly.) As the scene approached DEFCON 5, I followed directions, hoping the next one would involve me leaving the house and going to the store.

This event proved to me once again that I’m not really calling the shots. In this parenting duo, I’m the Garfunkel to her Simon. The Meg White to her Jack. The Andrew Ridgeley parent. (If you’re not getting the Wham! reference, read more here.)

davesmey.com

Hello flu bug, my old friend …

Of course these roles aren’t completely clear-cut. I think I would definitely be the George Michael parent during a major earthquake, for example. And if a crisis happens while we’re driving, I think my wife would be the first to admit that I should be behind the wheel. (Although that comes mostly from my combat driving experience while playing Burnout: Revenge.)

After all, Ridgeley did have a solo album. I’ve found that when I’m alone and s— goes down, after supressing the urge to call someone else on the phone and ask them what to do, I’m capable of being the Alpha parent. I’m just not most comfortable with the role.

Incidentally, I don’t think being a Ridgeley parent is a bad thing. I do feel like a little bit of a wuss when I’m relegated to the Lobot role in the relationship, but it probably works more smoothly this way. If you have two George Michaels, then it’s like on the schoolyard when everyone wanted to be Darth Vader and nobody wanted to be a Stormtrooper. Or the late-1980s 49ers, when Steve Young and Joe Montana both thought they should be the starting quarterback. Life works more smoothly when one partner is more than happy to hold the clipboard. (How many analogies did I cram in that last paragraph? Six? Is that a record?)

Who’s the Andrew Ridgeley parent in your household?

PETER HARTLAUB is the pop culture critic at the San Francisco Chronicle and founder of this parenting blog, which admittedly sometimes has nothing to do with parenting. Follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/peterhartlaub. Your questions answered on VYou at www.vyou.com/peterhartlaub.